


Permit Me a Father Fantasy

by writerofberk



Category: Treasure Planet (2002)
Genre: & jim is an emotionally repressed asshole, Abandonment Issues, Angst, Blood, Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Underage Drinking, father/son relationship, injuries, reposting 'cause i fucked it up the first time, silver is a shit, such a shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-12 00:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10478454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerofberk/pseuds/writerofberk
Summary: ...Really, that's all he's asking for. Collection of one-shots and drabbles exploring Jim and Silver's relationship.





	1. Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> i don't own treasure planet. or jim hawkins. or john silver. OR this title. the title actually comes from the book "you don't know me" by david klass. really good read. 10/10. highly recommend. the phrase kind of stuck in my head and wouldn't go away until i resolved to write something for it. also both jim and silver are probably ooc as fuck.

I guess you could say I wore the jacket when things weren’t going too well for me.

It was the only thing Dad had left behind when he took off, and it still carried his scent; at first, I just slept with it, fanning it over myself like a blanket, wrapping it around my own small shoulders, burying my nose in the collar, balling it up beneath my head like a pillow, hiding it beneath the blankets whenever I had to rise; I didn’t want Mom to find it. The days right after he left were blurry to me, at best; really, what I remembered most was endless nights lying curled up with the jacket, hugging it to my chest, clutching it tight in small, shaking hands as tears streamed down my cheeks, my own voice, barely above a whisper, carrying across the room. “Why did he leave? Why doesn’t he want me? What did I do? Why did he go?”

I never had an answer.

When I started actually wearing the jacket outside the house, I was careful to take it off before entering the inn; the sight of it would probably make Mom cry or something, and…well, she wasn’t happy, no, but there were moments in which she almost smiled, and whole days in which she never cried at all.

And this is going to sound crazy, but after a little while, I wore the jacket everywhere. Even around Mom. Because…I couldn’t take it off. It was kind of like a security blanket to me, in a way. I needed it. I couldn’t take it off. The jacket became my source of strength; though the scent of Dad had long since faded from the aged cloth, I clung to it like a stubborn child, as if I thought I could make him come back to us if I just wore it long enough.

The idea of losing the jacket actually filled me with dread and panic; I needed it, needed to hide in it and lose myself in it, because when it wasn’t hanging around my shoulders, when I couldn’t use it as a barrier between myself and the world, I felt naked and weak, exposed and vulnerable.

The attachment I felt toward it was actually kind of stupid, looking back on it; but when I entered the ship, I drew it tighter around myself and glared at everyone who looked my way. If I hated them first, if I judged them first, then when they judged me back, it wouldn’t bother me so much.

When Silver started teaching me about the ship, like the different knots I could use or how to scrape the barnacles off the side, I thought I’d be wearing it for the rest of the voyage. I slept in it, even, curled up in my hammock with it still wrapped around my body; but after a little while, after sleepless nights spent listening to Silver’s wild stories, after silently savoring the attention when he wrapped an arm around me, after hours spent learning how to tie sails and cook meals (Silver’s “secret ingredient” was copious amounts of beer), I awoke one morning, and the jacket was in a crumpled heap beside me. I made to rise from the hammock, but I kept glancing back at it, running my fingers over it, wondering if I’d need a barrier today, wondering if I’d need protection.

Finally, a little nervous, I left the room without it. And you know what? I didn’t need it. I didn’t need the strength or protection the jacket offered me. Because now I had my own, in the form of the cook.

I didn’t even touch the jacket for weeks after that. I didn’t need it. I might not even need to hide in it; I hadn’t screwed up in what felt like forever, hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t gotten into trouble, except when I’d angered that spider…creep.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have anything to hide from. And it felt so good.

Well. That was over now. The weight of it was comforting around my shoulders. I hadn’t missed it a bit, but I was glad I’d brought it. Should have known I’d screw up here and need it again.

The rough surface of the rope scraped against my fingers with every new knot I created, but I had to keep doing them, keep undoing them, then redoing them, because if I’d just done this earlier, when it really counted, Mr. Arrow would still be here, and I wouldn’t be useless…

Uneven footsteps pounding on the deck below me had me glancing down for a minute. Silver. He came to stand by the rail, jamming his pipe between his teeth. The silence between us lasted for a few seconds, but to me it felt like an eternity. He couldn’t even look at me, probably. Could hardly bear to speak to me. Because I’d actually killed someone this time. All the stuff I’d done back home on Montressor seemed like nothing compared to this. This wasn’t like riding into an off-limits area on my solar surfer just to irritate the cops. This had actually hurt someone. Because I’d been stupid and careless and hadn’t checked that one lifeline, and I thought I had, but it did no good, I couldn’t do anything…

“It weren’t your fault, you know.” In the silence, his voice seemed ten times louder than it normally would, and I closed my eyes. No, Silver didn’t hate me, like the others, but he was trying to make me feel better, but nothing could make this better.

So I just stayed quiet, undoing my last knot and immediately redoing it, staring down at the small piece of rope in my hands, a fragment of his lifeline. If I’d just checked to make sure…

“Why, half the crew would be spinning in that black abyss—

“Look, don’t you get it?!” I couldn’t stand him talking like that, talking about it and Mr. Arrow and a black abyss and lifelines and the crew. I needed him to shut up. So I threw the rope as far as I could, watching it hurtle away into space. I leaped from my spot on the masts, landing on the rail instead. “I screwed up! I mean, for once, I thought that maybe, I could do something right! I just…” I was spilling more than I meant to, and I had to stop. Had to shut up. If the man before me ever saw what a wreck I really was underneath the surface… “Just…forget it.” I leaned against the nearest mast, turning away from him. I couldn’t keep looking at him anymore. I could feel the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, and I reached to brush them away with my jacket sleeve. I should never have taken it off.

There was another silence between us, and in it, I thought maybe Silver really had glimpsed the true mess I hid. Maybe he was going to walk away now. Maybe he was going to leave. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“No.” And suddenly, his hand was on my shoulder and he was forcing me to look at him. What did he want now, didn’t he get it yet, I was a screw-up, I was useless. “You listen to me, James Hawkins.”

Looking back, I could never say if it was the tone of his voice or the use of my real name that rooted me to the spot, all my anger and strength deserting me again. Even the jacket offered me no comfort.

He slung an arm around me, jabbing his cyborg finger into my chest as he spoke. “Ya got the makings of greatness in ya!”  
What? I’d been stupid, I’d failed to check the lifelines, I was responsible for the loss of the first mate…there was nothing great in me. Nothing.

“But you gotta take the helm and chart your own course!” Silver did a hand motion, like he was steering a ship, and the gesture was so him that it almost hurt to watch. “Stick to it, no matter the squalls! And when the time comes, you get the chance to really test the cut of your sails, and show what you’re made of…”

I waited, breathless for a minute, as he stood with arms outstretched, like he could see the future me even now, and ached to be a part of that time. My throat constricted as I waited for him to finish.

“…well…I hope I’m there…” he still wasn’t looking at me; just gazed up at the starry sky over our heads, reaching out like he hoped to grasp some sort of shine, like he planned to grab a star itself out of the night skies. He stood like he was in awe, and the tears pushed against my eyes again. No one should ever be in awe of me. “…catching some of the light coming off you that day.”

That did it.

I couldn’t keep the tears back anymore; they welled up, blurring my vision, streaking down my cheeks, and I fell against Silver, leaning my forehead on his chest, feeling my legs beginning to fail, the last of my strength deserting me. I hadn’t cried for so long that now sobs burst out of me, real and raw and unstoppable, and for the first time since I’d realized I loved him, I wasn’t worried he was going to leave me, too. I just kept standing there, tears pouring down my face, and I didn’t try to stop them or wipe them away, because that would be pointless. He was rigid and unmoving as I cried into him, and it occurred to me in a kind of vague, distant way that I was probably making him uncomfortable, or else he wanted me to stop bawling all over him like a little kid, but even as I moved to pull away, wipe the tears and apologize, he suddenly wrapped his arms around me, and he pulled me closer, hugging me.

His warm embrace, his cheek resting on my hair, and his quiet voice, whispering to me, “Jimbo, it’s alright…it’s alright…”

It broke me again. I responded to his hug, and I clung to him, hands fisting, clenching the white shirt in my fingers. All that mattered in that moment was that he never, ever let me go. I could feel the tears leaving my eyes, dropping onto his shirt, but I didn’t want to move or anything that might risk us having to pull apart.

We did, though. We did break the hug after a minute. Well, he broke it, placing his hands on my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length. When he smiled at me, it looked sort of watery. “W-well…I…uh…Jimbo…” he laughed, a little nervously, and quickly removed his hands, straightening his hat. “I best be getting about my watch…and you best be getting some shut-eye.” He put a gentle hand on my back, guiding me toward the steps.

At the top of the staircase, I turned to look at him. I couldn’t stop looking at him. I was suddenly afraid that if I did, he’d disappear, and these past ten minutes would never have happened, and I’d still be sitting there, undoing and redoing knots. For the first time all night, I smiled when his gaze met mine, his words glowing within me like stars. “You got the makings of greatness in ya…”

But I would rather have had the words in my heart than all the stars in the world in my hands.

Somehow, I didn’t think I’d need the jacket for awhile.


	2. Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver's gotten very good, over the years, at seeing people as objects.

Silver had gotten very good, over the years, at seeing people as objects.

After a bit of time, he fell into the habit automatically, assigning every unfamiliar face to a kind of boat, a kind of metal or fabric or spice, because then when he stole from them or hurt them, it was just like denting metal or crashing a skiff, and it didn’t matter because they weren’t real, they couldn’t _feel_ it.

From the instant he’d boarded the Legacy, he knew he’d have to hurt everyone there.

So he made them objects.

The captain came first, and she was a knife. Cool and brutal, sharp and quick, but beautiful, too, in her own way. Savage enough to break the skin and draw blood, dangerous enough to cause a bit of pain; yes, somebody to watch out for, definitely.

The doctor? Frankly, the canine baffled Silver a bit. If what he’d said was true, he was a celebrated astrophysicist with about a thousand credentials, but if he had the brains for it, he had yet to display them. Incapable, incompetent, inadequate…the list went on, and the cyborg was a bit too eager to continue.

But the boy…oh, the boy…he was a bit like a pot, a rusty pot, if truth be told. A rough, dark surface barely hiding the dull shine underneath. Silver sensed something more within him, a true and raw potential, and if he were to sit down for a day or two and scrub at that rust, maybe it would flake off at last, and the boy would reach that potential. The cook had a feeling the kid had never even tried before, might not even know what hid within him.

As the voyage commenced, his view of the boy had changed – there was excitement in his eyes, a flush in his cheeks, a bright hope in his voice, a secret hidden hurt in his heart, and when they came together, all at once, they formed something more significant than just a pot. It was a slap in the face to Silver when the boy spoke of his father. It confirmed a truth the cook would have gladly hidden from; the lad used to have a life. He’d had hopes, dreams, plans for himself and his future; he had fears and insecurities, likes and dislikes, and he drank coffee in the mornings and helped his mother at her inn in the afternoons, and rode his solar surfer among the stars at three o’ clock in the morning, when he couldn’t sleep. He’d had a _life_. He hadn’t just sprung into being, fifteen years old and furious at the world. He had a past. Suddenly, he wasn’t a faceless, nameless cabin boy – he was Jimbo, the brilliant and reckless lad who spent too much time brooding in the crow’s nest and not nearly enough scrubbing the deck as Silver had told him to.

In an effort to appease a burning conscience, the cook had amended his statement – the lad was not just a pot, he was the cyborg’s favorite copper pot. A bit rusty, slightly chipped, maybe battered, but still good and shiny and beautiful.

And every hour spent in the kid’s company, every smile they shared or joke they told, every laugh they had together, every meal they prepared, it was all just scraping off the rust, and it wasn’t important and it didn’t matter and when the time came for the mutiny, he’d just be a pot and he’d feel nothing, but all the same, Silver would try to keep it quick because he liked his copper pot quite a bit and if given the choice, he would leave it untouched, unharmed.

But even if, when he’d finished scraping all of the rust off and the lad shone brighter than ever…if, even then, he refused to leave the boy’s side…well…he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

On the night of Mr. Arrow’s death, Silver nearly blew the whole thing. Because somewhere between securing lifelines and crying into the cook’s chest, the lad became a _person_. For an instant, when he wrapped his arms around the kid and whispered every assurance he knew, the teenager’s warm weight was a wake-up call. He was real, and he was desperate and lonely and crying, sobbing softly into the thin white shirt, feeling useless and blaming himself, and damn Scroop for making him think he wasn’t good enough, damn the whole world for making this boy believe he was good-for-nothing, and damn that father of his, for walking away from him, abandoning him, depriving him of every experience that he should have had, that he deserved.

There was a minute in which Silver simply could not fathom why anyone would choose to hurt this boy, and why so many had. The instant he’d realized where his train of thought was going, he pushed the kid away, firm but gentle, and dismissed him as quickly as he could. Jimbo was nothing, nothing, a copper pot, cold and unfeeling and metal, and everyone in the whole damn galaxy could hurt this kid if they wished and Silver wouldn’t stop them, because pots didn’t need saviors.

Yet even, when they had been discovered, and the lad had spoken the truth to the captain, even when the kid stabbed him in the leg or stole the map right out from under him…even when Silver raised his gun and locked it onto the retreating back, preparing to fire – _c’mon, you can do it, it’s just a bullet, you’ve used this gun plenty of times, kid won’t even feel it if you aim right, and then you’ll have the map_ – he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He couldn’t. Later, he was furious with himself. The boy was just a _pot_ – useful, maybe, and shiny, a nice trinket to gaze upon, but still just a thing, a pretty possession to sit upon a shelf and collect dust and were it to fall and hit the floor, it’d just be dented, no real damage done. And if ever it did get broken, well, Silver would miss it certainly, but there were a million other pots out there.

“I like ya, lad,” and he did, because the copper pot was his favorite…

“But I’ve come too far to let ya stand between me and me treasure.”

…but there were a million other pots out there.

When he took a step forward, the boy responded instantly, stepping back – there was a breathless millisecond in which he was cornered, back to the wheel, nowhere to go, and Silver waited for the blade to fall, readied his cyborg hand to defend, but the second passed and the lad made no move to use the sword in his shaking hands.

A sudden shockwave rocked the boat, sending both the cook and the cabin boy tumbling off the deck, onto a nearby platform of smooth metal. Silver very nearly went sliding off, but managed to hastily save himself, gripping the metal very tightly between his flesh fingers.

Remembering the treasure – he had not come this far just to fail – he glanced up, heart jumping into his throat as he saw the flames eating into the fortune awaiting him on the deck, his fortune, his treasure, he’d fought for it and schemed for it… Silver felt a snarl curling his wasted lips.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” The world had taken his leg, his arm, his eye…it wasn’t taking his treasure, too. Not if he could help it.

Gripping the side of the boat with all the strength in his cyborg hand, Silver was seconds away from towing it to the platform, retrieving his treasure at last, when Morph distracted him; squeaking urgently, the pink creature darted swiftly in front of his face.

Sweat pouring down his forehead in thick streams, Silver rasped with dry throat, “What? What is it?” He glanced back instantly, toward the other end of the platform, but there was not a soul to be seen; so he looked farther, his cyborg eye focused in on…

“Jimbo!” The lad had evidently fallen from the platform; now, dangling precariously from a slippery groove with trembling fingers, he hung only feet above the frothing, burning orange abyss. Something more than shock ripped through the pirate at the sight – it was fear, genuine and raw, rising up into his throat and choking him. The boy was so close to falling, any moment now he would, plunging into that lava, foaming and boiling… No. He couldn’t let that happen. If a pot threatens to fall from a shelf, do you not do your best to save it before it hits the ground?

“Jimbo! Grab hold!” The boy immediately extended a hand, panic and desperation in his widened eyes, arms straining, fingers slipping, chest heaving, and falling just short…

“Reach!” Silver bellowed at the top of his lungs, as if he thought he could physically bridge the gap through the word alone.

“I can’t!” The fear in the youthful voice sounded genuine; the lad was struggling, never once quit trying to grasp the other’s fingers.

_Change of plans_. Silver was good at these. So he extended his cyborg arm just enough, towing the boat even closer to the platform; then he slid a bit closer to the edge, reaching…reaching…

And the boy fell...

And then he caught himself on another notch in the wall, and Silver’s world was still intact.

He still wasn’t safe, though; Silver could see the tension in the tanned arms, the struggle to lift himself higher, and he kept slipping, and he wasn’t going to make it, and the pirate should have been looking at his treasure, drinking in the sight, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the cabin boy, the pot balancing on the extreme edge of the shelf, and threatening to fall. And he would. He couldn’t hold on for five minutes, much less long enough for Silver to tow the boat safely to the platform and then grab hold of him. Even now, he trembled, sliding down the length of the groove, arms shaking, breathing heavy with the strength and exertion required.

At that moment, a single golden coin fell onto Silver’s flesh hand. And there was something about the sensation – something cool and weighty and metallic – that made him realize the full truth of his surroundings. If the pot slipped, if it fell, it would not merely be dented, it would be broken, shattered beyond repair, and it was not balancing on the extreme edge and— _copper pots be damned, his boy needed him_ , and he could not stand another moment of this breathless indecision.

Silver released the boat.

With the last remnants of his strength, the cyborg threw himself to the edge of the platform, and things happened so fast he could not have said whether the lad fell first or he extended a hand before. All he knew was a moment of consuming terror, and then there was a rough, small hand in his, and everything was okay and the world was right again.

As quickly as he could, lest he or the boy lose their strength, he hauled Jim up onto the platform beside him, and for a moment, they both resumed their positions, drawing in deep, ragged gasps; and both cyborg and child could scarcely believe the former’s decision.

The boat’s fate drew their attention again. For an instant, the sky above their heads was alive with colors, blazing orange and yellow and red, mixing and swirling to create frothing clouds of lava and flame, the sound growing to an almost unbearable volume, the light growing almost too bright for the watching eyes, the force shaking their tiny platform so much, it nearly sent them over the edge once more. And the ship exploded, sending a shower of gold coins and splintered wood over them; he saw the lad attempting to shield himself from the falling debris. Even after the remnants appeared well and truly dispersed, the two waited for a minute; finally, Silver rose to his mismatched feet, shaking slightly, glancing around. Aside from them, the planet was barren and deserted; all others had fled, and the last of the treasure had just been destroyed. A glance at the boy at his side was all it took to erase any regret.

He helped the boy to his feet, and together they raced for the portal, emerging, gasping on the other side.

The boy lifted his head; there was incredulity and admiration in his voice when he spoke to the cyborg. “Silver! You gave up?”

“Just a lifelong obsession, Jim, I’ll get over it.” And Silver knew it was true, because it had been nothing – and at the same time, everything – that he’d expected. It had been treasure, in a sense – piles upon piles of thick golden coins and sparkling, multi-colored jewels, swords with diamond-encrusted hilts, and metal adornments: earrings, bracelets, necklaces, beautiful items, truly…but there had been something _wrong_ with them, and he remembered thinking that, even as he picked up a jewel and buried his hands in the gold, cradling it close to his chest like a beloved, fussing child. And even then, staring at his own reflection in the gleaming surface, there had been something wrong, and he’d known it. He’d dismissed the feeling, submerged himself completely in the wonderful, glistening treasure laying all about, held the coins to his face and the necklaces to lips, pressing a kiss to the pendant. But against his fingers, the coins were cold. And it felt so _wrong_.

Only now, looking into the tanned, smiling face, remembering the hand gripping his firmly, the weight of the boy’s thin body against his, did he realize that the treasure had lacked the warmth he’d been expecting. He’d thought, strangely, that the gold would have a kind of inner glow, like sunshine trapped in the metal. He’d desired the gold, worshipped it like a god and loved it like a fellow being. But gold was just metal, unfeeling and empty, and when he touched it, there had been no warmth to it.

There had been thousands and thousands of coins on that planet.

And there were a million copper pots in the marketplace.

But there was only one Jim Hawkins, and he was the only treasure Silver would ever need.


	3. Permit me a Father Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where Jim says a little too much.

“Mr. Silver?”

Halfway through thinly slicing a potato, the cook froze where he stood in the galley.

“Mr. Silver?” The stone-faced first mate appeared at the bottom of the stairway leading into the galley, his voice, as usual, stern and deep and unwavering; the cyborg winced, pushing away from the stove and striving for an open, cheerful smile. Sea cooks very rarely received visits from the first mate, and the times he had, the latter had come bearing unarguably bad news. Well…Jimbo becoming his cabin boy had _seemed_ like bad news at first, but…

“Mr. Silver?” Mr. Arrow repeated himself for the third time, and the cook forced himself back into reality.

“Why, Mr. Arrow, sir,” he tried for a light, brisk tone when he spoke, placing the potato on a plate nearby and reaching for a dishcloth to wipe his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit to my humble galley?”

“The captain asks,” Mr. Arrow responded tonelessly, and with enough of an emphasis on the last word to alert Silver to the fact that _asks_ really meant _demands_ , “that you entrust your cabin boy with a task.”

“…Sir?” The cook replied, confused.

“In her words, he’s been gamboling about all morning with indecent enthusiasm,” Mr. Arrow elaborated sternly. “And he has created sparks once or twice. Naturally, she is concerned.”

“ _Ah_.” The cyborg’s smile slipped as he raked his real hand tiredly down the length of his browned face. “Aye, sir. Right away, sir.”

Mr. Arrow disappeared, and Silver let loose a low sigh. The truth was, he _had_ given Jimbo a job two hours ago – the kid had been practically _mutilating_ his poor potatoes, he was so restless and distracted, so Silver had sent him up to the deck with strict orders to make an inventory of the rations aboard and return with a written list in hand. Apparently, the lad had gotten…sidetracked.

The cook pushed away from the stove, abandoning the pile of sliced potatoes, and hurried up the steps to the deck; would this kid never learn the lesson of follow-through? He’d been getting better, as of late, when it came to completing his tasks on time, and he’d stopped wearing that huge black jacket and stopped glaring so much and started laughing and talking quite a bit more, but if this was an indication that he was sliding back into his old ways…

There he was.

Silver would have liked to be stern; would have liked to read the kid the riot act right there, started scolding him about the importance of starting and completing duties, but the sight of the lad, with his soot-smudged nose and thin, pinched lips and brows drawn down, eyes narrowed in intense concentration, gazing down at the shining metal sheet, the cook couldn’t help the smile that flickered across his own face. He banished it quickly enough; if he showed any sign of pleasure or mirth, the kid knew he wasn’t really angry and thus never took him seriously. He firmed his lips and all but stomped over to the boy, stretching his lips into a snarl. “Jimbo!”

“Mm?”

“What are ye _doin’_ , lad? I told ya to get me an inventory o’ the ship’s rations! What is this—?"

“I made the list already,” the boy stuffed a piece of tattered, unused canvas sail in his mouth and spoke around it, “but then I got an idea—this tastes like soured milk,” he interrupted himself, yanking the sail from his lips once more, face twisting in disgust. “Hold on, the list is in my pocket…I just started thinking...” He turned the sheet of metal over, and Silver could see now that the lad was fashioning a solar surfer; it was obviously unfinished, the cyborg could see this by the empty spaces for the thrusters. “…You know how this ship has artificial gravity? And if we turned it off or jumped overboard, we’d fall up?”

“Yeah…” Silver replied cautiously, interested in spite of himself.

“Well, I figured I could get some artificial gravity going on a solar surfer, right? I mean, I have all the materials here to build one – not a welding torch, though, should have thought of that…I’ll figure it out. But I figured…I mean, it’d be cool, right?” The kid grabbed a wrench off the deck, turning to face the cook as he spoke. “Only thing is, I don’t think I can actually recreate the artificial gravity – I know the theory, but I can’t… _do_ it.”

To tell the truth, Silver was now completely immersed in the problem with the boy, and grudgingly impressed at the skill displayed in the mechanism before him. “Well, ya could speak wit’ the cap’n,” he suggested, after a moment of thought. “I know th’ Legacy has backups o’ jus’ abou’ everythin’, and I’d be willin’ to bet my bes’ pipe that she’ll have a battery or somethin’ for the gravity.”

“You think?” the kid brightened immediately, rising to his feet. “I don’t know, isn’t going into her stateroom kind of like walking into a lion’s den?”

The cook managed to bite back his laughter, out of fear that it would draw attention; however, he simply couldn’t suppress a smile. “You’re righ’ there, lad.”

But evidently, the boy had been in earnest; he cast a slightly nervous look at her stateroom door, chewing his lip.

“Why don’ ya leave it to me?” Silver offered suddenly. “I know how t’ talk t’ th’ lioness.” He winked, making the boy chuckle. “Ya jus’ leave it t’ me.” Then, remembering he was supposed to be stern, he added, “And leave tha’ lis’ in th’ galley, or heaven help ya!”

* * *

 

The cook and the cabin boy spent the better part of a week perfecting the solar surfer. Silver would be the first to admit that he did not have the head for mechanics – he fully expected to find himself lost within the hour, but the machine’s complexities seemed almost...simple, somehow. He actually found himself almost as eager as Jimbo to work on it most mornings. Of course, he couldn’t let the kid know that; he tried to keep a list of constant chores for the boy, but two days in, this fell by the wayside – the only duties expected of the lad nowadays were helping to prepare meals and washing dishes. It was fitting, Silver supposed, considering the amount of time Jimbo dedicated to the surfer.

On the third day, they moved their work to the galley, not least because the captain seemed to have figured out what they were really using her backup battery for, and both man and boy were concerned that she might demand its return.

On the fourth day, most of the work seemed to be completed, until Jim reminded him of the notable lack of thrusters or sail. The fifth day, Jimbo spent adding a few finishing touches here and there, polishing the surface while Silver tested the various gears to be sure they functioned properly.

On the dawning of the sixth day, the cook did not even have to stop by the cabin boy’s hammock to rouse him; they woke together, working clear through the sunrise, exchanging playful banter or terrible jokes; privately, the cyborg noted Jimbo’s wide smile and sparkling eyes, and insisted these things did not please him in the least.

When the sun had risen fully and the final bit of work was done, the two brought the result of their toil up to the deck, occasionally banging into things and shushing each other in laughing whispers, trying not to rouse any of the crew before they performed their test run. At last, with a groan of relief from both, they settled the glistening metal upon the deck, and the lad climbed on with no hesitation, bending a moment to balance before standing upright once more.

“A’right, now, be quick abou’ it, lad,” Silver warned the excited boy. “If ya think th’ battery’s not workin’, ya come back sharpish.”

“Alright.” There was no reluctance or fear in the lad’s eyes, only anticipation. “Step back a little.”

In a rare moment of obedience, the cook did as bid, retreating a few paces. When Jim seemed satisfied with the distance, he hit the power button, and the solar surfer came to life under him, rising tremulously a few feet off the deck. It hung suspended in this manner for a few moments before Jim put on a burst of speed, and the mechanism shot forward several feet, over the railing of the ship. There was now nothing but the battery pumping within the mechanical body to keep the lad from floating up into space.

For an instant, both held their breath, as if expecting their luck to run out, their efforts to be for naught, but the battery worked, and the lad remained there, unmoving and perfectly safe.

“Yes! We did it!” Jimbo laughed triumphantly, doing a sudden, complicated flip in midair, turning upside down and pumping a fist over his head. Once he had righted himself again, the boy rapidly circled the Legacy twice, letting out noises of excitement every now and then that he tried to stifle. “We did it!” he repeated, parking the solar surfer right next to the cook and allowing the cyborg to be eye-level with him. 

He powered the machine off again, hopping down to the deck.

“Aye,” the cook nodded, unable to keep a smile off his face. “We did it, lad.”

There was silence between them for a moment.

"We'd best be startin’ on breakfast, lad,” Silver spoke at last. “Hungry crews are nothin’ to play wit’. The las’ captain I worked for, he used me as targe’ practice when I didn’ serve his crew on time.” The cyborg chuckled at his own words, placing an arm around the boy’s small shoulders and leading him down the steps to the galley.

They prepared the meal in companionable silence, but when the plates had been served and nearly all the dishes scrubbed, the cook spoke at last. “Ya know, lad, las’ week, ya really did a number on those potatoes.”

“Sorry.” The apology was not spoken resentfully; the defiance, the disregard for authority, the attitude the boy had worn like a beloved garment had fallen away. “I thought you’d forget about them, to be honest.”

“Though’ ya could pull the wool o’er John Silver’s eyes, did ya?” The cyborg shook his head with a chuckle. “Can’t do it, lad, I’m warnin’ ya. And since those potatoes were damn near unusable when ya were finished wit’ ‘em, well…ye aren't goin' to be slicin' no more, right? Fact, I ‘spect ya to stay clean out o’ th’ galley when I’m cuttin’ ‘em.” Here, he allowed a smile to cross his face. “When ya see ‘em, hop on tha’ solar surfer to protect ‘em.”

The mildly abashed expression on the lad’s face immediately transformed into the kind of smile that could only be described as a beam. _“Really?”_

“Did a good bi’ o’ work on it myself, didn’t I?” demanded the cook, playing at anger. “Be right galled if ya didn’t use it.”

The boy actually leaped off the crate serving as his seat in his excitement. “Wow, _thanks,_ Dad!”

The cyborg stood absolutely still. Jimbo did not, at first, realize anything out of the ordinary had been said; still clutching his soapy brush, the lad smiled distantly into space for a second, perhaps entertaining pleasant fantasies of solar surfing.

When the realization hit him, Silver knew it; the lad’s blue eyes widened, a blush rapidly beginning in his cheeks. He stared at the cyborg in silence for a moment and then, as if remembering himself, flung the brush and dirty plate away, ignoring the shatter as the ceramic broke into pieces. He raced for the galley steps, and Silver’s soft call was lost, only the wooden walls hearing what fell from his lips. “Jimbo…”

* * *

 

It was a changed Jim Hawkins that wandered the ship the next seven days. His oversized black jacket had returned to its place around his shoulders, a perpetual scowl darkened his features, and he refused to even so much as look at the cook. The solar surfer he had built was much neglected, and it seemed he did not even want to look at the project; he spent much of his time brooding in the shrouds, staring out into vast, empty space and ignoring anyone who tried to speak with him.

There was a curious mixture of shame, anger, and burning guilt whenever Silver allowed his thoughts to stray to the lad in the shrouds. So reluctant was he to approach the other that the cook even failed to assign his cabin boy trivial chores; he simply let the boy be. Oh, he knew he should attempt conversation with the lad, however thoroughly his efforts would be disdained; but even the mere thought of approaching the kid again, and trying to make light of the incident in the galley, made the gruff, cutthroat pirate want to turn and run. It was a humbling realization to be sure – a mere child, a boy of fifteen, and the idea of extending the hand of communications to him, was all it took to leave the confident cook tongue-tied. Whatever had happened to the heartless, brutal, murdering captain he had been when he’d boarded this ship? He should be kept awake with thoughts of the planet they were hoping to reach, the treasure that would, at last, be his; instead, he lay awake and thought of the cabin boy, his wide, startled eyes, his flushing cheeks, suddenly taking to his feet and flinging the dish with all his might before exiting the galley as quickly as his legs could carry him.

And why, the cyborg wondered endlessly, why had the lad said that? It was true that he lacked a father, a role model to look up to and admire; it was true that Silver sometimes reckoned the kid needed a man’s steady hand to guide him in his path, somebody to teach him to pick his fights and rescue him from scrapes; the kind of soul who would be glad to provide the affection and education that a father ordinarily gave to his son...

But he was _not_ it.

If the kid actually saw him like that, actually did view him as a kind of second chance at a father, then so help him, he would…

He was a pirate, for crying out loud! He was wanted on sixteen different planets by now! He lived on the run! He classified a “good day” as a day in which he avoided law enforcement officers, managed to fill his stomach, and caught more than three hours’ sleep. He was no one’s role model. No one should admire him or the way in which he lived.

This led the cyborg to another conclusion: perhaps the boy had simply misspoken. Perhaps he had been thinking of his own father, and said the word without real regard to its meaning, or whom he was speaking to. Perhaps, then, he had fled the galley out of nothing more than a spot of childish embarrassment. Though this did raise the question of why the lad’s thoughts had strayed to his father when speaking to Silver…not to mention, if it had been a simple slip of the tongue, Jimbo would have returned to the galley by now with an apologetic shrug and shy smile. And he still remained, a silent vigil in the shrouds.

For the first time in his life, the cook was completely at a loss. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, the cyborg longed to regain the easy, open talk they had achieved when working on the surfer. But the boy showed no sign of ceasing his campaign of silence toward the other, and Silver knew without a doubt that if he wanted to fix things, he must begin to bridge the gap himself.

Even this desire did not sway him until he recalled how he had satisfied the crew as of late; when they questioned him, and the time he spent with the kid, he had soothed their fears – told them of course he must cozy up to the boy, of course he must do whatever he could to keep him off the scent, he must make sure the boy had no inkling, no real idea of what was to happen when they reached the planet… If the rest of the crew saw them now, avoiding each other as determinedly as possible, there would be questions. And everything would go to hell. Silver must speak with the lad. And no, neither of them had a choice.

* * *

 

The lad had climbed up into the crow’s nest tonight.

Even from his place on the deck, the cook could see the dark expression on the kid’s face as he gazed out at the stars, legs drawn close to his chest, as if to make himself appear as small as possible; he had one arm wrapped loosely around his own knees, and there he sat, a silent storm all his own.

Silver steeled himself, resting an elbow as casually as he could on the railing. He could do this. It wasn’t that hard. All he had to do was talk. And keep talking. And hopefully, the kid would respond. “Jimbo.”

There was a minute of silence, and Silver counted the seconds. The lad at last heaved a small sigh and rose to his feet, sliding effortlessly down the shrouds and coming to a stop at the bottom. When he had reached the deck, he walked right past the other without a word or glance to indicate that anything had been said at all.

“Jimbo.” Silver turned, extending a hand to stop the boy; his fingers clenched around the sleeve of his jacket, forcing the other to pause.

“Let go.” His voice sounded odd from lack of use.

“Not yet, lad,” the cyborg refused, coming around to stand in front of the kid, “not until ya hear what I got to say, withou’ interruptin’ or takin’ off.”

It was as if Silver had released the power of a hurricane with these words. “I don’t want to hear it! Let me go!”

“Lad—

“I get it, alright? So you can let me go and stop…stop t-talking to me, alright, I don’t care anymore, you can just tell me what you need me to do and I’ll mop the deck and clean the dishes and you don’t even have to look at me, I get it, so let me go!”

“I think ya’d do be’er to wait, and le’ me talk for a bit firs’,” the cook responded firmly.

“I get it! I know what I did, but you don’t have to feel sorry for me anymore! Just take your fucking pity and get away from me, I don’t want it!” The boy was shaking in the cyborg’s grip, jerking his arm, trying to wrench himself free, the words pouring out of him so fast, so thick, so full of emotion that he appeared unable to stop himself.

“I wish ya hadn’t said it,” Silver began, and this was perfectly true.

“Don’t feel bad for me! You don’t have to feel bad for me! I’m doing just fucking fine without him!”

“Lad.” The tone the cook used then left no room for arguments. “Shu’ up for two seconds, and le’ me speak.”

“Goddamn it!” The boy took a step back, struggling to break free of the hand on his arm. “Let me go, asshole!”

“Jimbo.” Calm was the last thing Silver felt, but somehow, he managed to sound nothing but. “Do ya want the res’ o’ the crew to hear this, or do ya want me to deal wit’ it quietly?”

This, at last, seemed to pierce through the lad’s fog of fury; he ceased the struggle, going almost limp, and turned his gaze instead to the deck.

“Tha’s what I though’,” Silver dropped his voice a bit, and continued, speaking quickly lest the teenager decide to start shouting and swearing again. “Now, what ya said back in th’ galley las’ week – I wish ya hadn’t said it, Jimbo, ‘cause I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about it, and I don’t like the thoughts I been havin’.”

The boy was silent.

The cyborg voiced the question slowly, spacing out each word, pronouncing them deliberately clearly. “Did ya mean it, Jimbo?”

“It—it doesn’t matter,” the teenager replied, still staring furiously at the deck. His voice sounded strangely thick now.

“Ah, lad,” Silver said gently, “it does.”

Jim did not answer.

“It matters,” the cyborg continued softly, “’cause I’m not a father, Jimbo. Ne’er have been, ne’er wanted to be. Ne’er will be.” He let this hang in the air for a moment before going on. “An’ I’m not no one to be looked to, eit’er. I’m…” _Everything you should never want to be_. “…not the bes’…example. Now, I know ya have ne’er had nobody like a pap to look to or learn from, and tha’s tough, lad – I’m sorry it had to happen thataway.” He spoke seriously and softly. “Ya deserve a dad, Jimbo.”

The lad gave something almost like a sniffle, and Silver was sure he saw the boy swipe at his downturned face.

He forced himself to speak the next words. “…But I’m not it.”

The cook waited for his cabin boy to speak, but no words left the latter’s mouth – so he took it upon himself to keep on. “There are times…” Silver hesitated before continuing. “…when I wish ye were. But I ne’er had a son, and your pap left ya a long time ago. And we both gotta deal with that.”

Quietly, so quietly, the boy whispered brokenly, “You’re _all I have_.”

And then, to Silver’s utter horror, the lad began crying, scrubbing stubbornly at his face even as tears trickled freely down his cheeks.

The cook stood frozen for a moment, hands dangling uselessly at his sides, dark eyes wide in his shock, mouth opening and closing, no sound escaping. At last, he brought his arms up and wrapped them hesitantly around the small shoulders, pulling the thin, shaking body closer to his own. Well did he remember his own boyhood, a lonely, empty twelve years or so, where there seemed to be a hole within himself bigger than he was, and nothing and no one to fill it.

So he lowered his lips to the lad’s ear and spoke the only truth he could.

“ _I know_ , lad. I know.”


	4. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim takes a risk, and pays a pretty high price.

It’s kind of funny, isn’t it, how when everything’s said and done, it’s the little things, the small details, that really stick out in your mind?

Really, if asked, I couldn’t describe the latter half of the day, but I remembered every second of that skiff ride with Silver. The feel of the controls in my hands, and how right it felt. The wind blowing on my face, ruffling my hair, the tilting and rocking of our little craft as we spun and rolled straight into a cloud of stardust. When I thought of it, I could even still hear Silver swearing up a blue streak when we first took off.

And when we tied it up afterward, laughing and teasing, at last collapsing on the benches, I could remember every word we exchanged. And when he sat next to me, I remember the faint, mixed scents of brandy and outside air that always clung to him like a second skin. The rough wool of his coat against my cheek. The smile on my face, the sudden peace within me, because for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t furious or scared or lonely or…anything.

For two seconds, I was just me.

The gaping hole that I’d once felt inside me, the empty nothing that had scared me so much, that I thought would one day take me over, seemed smaller somehow, less threatening. I think maybe it was because somebody was filling it.

And for two seconds, I felt okay.

Of course, those two seconds ended, but they happened, and that was good enough for me.

After that, everything happened pretty suddenly.

Looking back, I couldn’t tell you whether we heard or felt it first – but there was a really loud noise, like an explosion, and it was like it came from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. And something hit us, too, collided solidly with the _Legacy_ , and sent me tumbling out of Silver’s arms.

He immediately reached for me, trying to catch me, but I fell too fast; I threw my hands out in front of me, catching myself before I hit the floor.

The impact jolted my arms and when I sat back on my knees, I groaned a little, rolling my shoulders in hopes of easing the pain.

Silver hauled me up by the collar of my shirt with ease, setting me back on my feet. “Ye alrigh’, Jimbo?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I glanced at him questioningly. “What _was_ that?”

“Yer guess’s good as mine, lad,” he responded curtly, and, turning, jumped out of the skiff and onto the platform, leaving me to follow him up to the deck.

The rest of the crew was running around wildly when we got there, a few climbing the shrouds to secure the sails. Over by the rail, a few feet away, calm and composed as usual, the captain stood with Mr. Arrow by her side, issuing commands in her stern, no-nonsense manner. “Mr. Hands! Don’t just stand there, those at the cannons are in need of assistance! Mr. Turnbuckle, evasive action! Mr. Scroop, this is your _final warning_ – Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Silver, excellent, you two are here…Mr. Silver, I expect you to join Mr. Scroop and Mr. Hands at the cannons, and Mr. Hawkins, as a precaution, you are to arm yourself. Remain on deck, you may be needed.”

“What’s going on?” Silver demanded, when he could get a word in edgewise.

As if in answer to his question, another vessel drew suddenly even with ours; a small, sleek, dark craft with a telltale black flag flying from the masts.

“ _Pirates_.”

The captain glanced at me, and I knew what they were after.

“We must keep the scum at bay,” the captain clasped her hands behind her back and surveyed the both of us sternly. “And Mr. Silver, as I’ve said, you will be assisting Mr. Scroop and Mr. Hands with the cannons. Mr. Hawkins, arm yourself and remain on deck.”

“Aye, Captain.”

And then everything became kind of a blur. I remember the cool weight of the pistol in my hands, and everyone yelling and shouting, Silver disappearing to help with the cannons, and the gunshots. Most of all, I remember the gunshots. And the cries when bullets broke skin and entered bodies. They might have been pirates, but hearing their pain made my stomach clench. Looking down at the pistol in my hands, I didn’t think I’d be able to pull the trigger.

If I had to guess, I would say that the laser cannons wiped out at least a third of the opposing crew, and we didn’t lose a single man. But the _Legacy_ wasn’t a pirate ship, and her cannons were meant only to defend. And the pirate ship had been built to attack.

There was a minute where everything went kind of quiet; everyone still on deck rushed to the rails, and I remember gripping the thin metal bar, leaning out over it, narrowing my eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of the opposing craft. When I spotted the vessel, I could hardly believe my eyes. These guys called themselves pirates? “They’re retreating," I said slowly, because I could hardly believe it myself.

“Retreating?” Everyone at the rail tore their gaze from the empty space and instead looked hopefully at me, repeating the word.

The captain shook her head slowly, eyes narrowed. “No. They’re _rethinking_.”

These past few months aboard the ship had taught me that the captain, come hell or high water, thought she was always right – and that she usually was. So when she spoke, I knew her assumption was correct.

I remained at the rail, gazing out at the undeniably empty sky. Now that she’d said something, I could sense it in the air itself – the ceaseless tension of calm before a storm. The metal rail was cold beneath my fingers. The air around us was utterly silent, the sky vast and blue and empty. The back of my neck prickled, and I could almost _see_ the pirate ship, lurking somewhere in the clouds, watching and waiting, just as we were. I could only hope that the captain had been wrong.

I drew in a slow breath, leaning out a little farther…eyes scanning the clouds, watching, tensed, ready for attack, waiting for a sign, pistol in hand as I prepared to defend, waiting…waiting…

BOOM.

The noise came from directly behind us, and it was the loudest, most terrifying sound I’d ever heard. I didn’t really stop to think, I just reacted instinctively, using my hands to cover my ears and spinning around to look, to see the pirates hauling themselves up over the opposite rail, mouths stretched and twisted into brutal, savage grins.

“Men! Abandon the cannons, they’re of no use now!” At the captain’s call, those manning the cannons glanced up and around, deserting their posts when they saw the truth in her statements.

Silver headed for the rail instead, pressing a button on his arm; the metal clicked and hummed, transforming suddenly into a rifle. Gunshots rent the air soon after.

The sound of bullets borne by strong, swift winds, whistling through the air, a deathly, singsong warning before they hit their target, was unnerving, nauseating and frightening, to be honest, but when the rest of the crew raced over to the opposite rail and copied Silver, I did the same, taking a second to cock my gun before pointing straight down and shooting. I’d never shot a gun before, and the noise was deafening; the bullet zinged harmlessly past, shooting out among the stars. Before I could do anything more, one of the pirates, who had evidently skillfully avoided every bullet, climbed up onto the rail. Before anyone could react to the bold move, he flung himself onto me, knocking me to the ground, the pistol spinning a few feet away, out of my reach. I expected him to kill me then, so I wasted no time getting to my feet and dashing for my weapon again.

But the pirate actually ignored me. He turned his back and raced away, to the opposite end of the deck. What was he doing? He was…he was going to…to…

“Captain!” The moment I could get close to her, I grabbed her by the arm without thinking, forcing her to listen. “Captain, they’re going for your stateroom!”

Her green eyes narrowed. “I’ll handle it, Mr. Hawkins.” Without another word, she plunged back into the fray and disappeared from my view.

In the frenzy of battle, I guess I lost track of things for a minute, avoiding bullets; but when there seemed to be a lull, I chanced to lift my head, and what I saw made my heart jump in my chest.

Another one of the pirates, a burly alien about the size of our Mr. Hands, had somehow gotten the best of Silver, and towered over him now, and oh, God, there was a pistol in his hands and the barrel pointed straight at Silver’s chest, and Silver wasn’t moving, wasn’t getting up.

For a minute, nothing else in the world mattered to me but Silver, and the possibility of losing him. For an instant, there was nothing but breathless terror and the idea of Silver’s eyes falling closed for the last time, and I had to do something. If I lost him…

So I acted. I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t think, period. I just acted.

I bolted over to them, as fast as I could, my boots pounding on the deck, my heart hammering in my chest, my rapid, shallow breaths scraping against my dry throat, and I raised the pistol. My hands were shaking so badly, I knew the idea of actually shooting the pirate was hopeless, but maybe I could distract him. I had to do something. So I fired.

And the bullet hit him. At any other time, it would have been a sickening, unpleasant sound to me, but all it meant right now was that Silver had more time. So when the bullet entered his leg and he cursed, hitting the deck with a thump, I wasn’t upset.

“Silver!” My voice came out loud and high and panicked; I knelt at his side, but he was already up, dark eyes assessing the situation.

When he spotted the crumpled, bleeding pirate, his eyes narrowed. He rose to his feet, and I thought he seemed a bit unsteady, but when I offered a hand to help him, he waved me away. “Mr. Silver!” The captain’s cry had the both of us turning; it didn’t matter that she’d only called one name. Fearing the worst – had they gotten to the map? – I raced toward her, following Silver’s broad back.

For a minute, I was just running. For a minute, I wasn’t aware of anything except the rocking deck beneath my feet, the relief when Silver regained his usual pace, one hand clenched into a fist and the pistol clutched in the other.

And then I heard it.

The whistle.

The deathly warning.

The song.

All I knew after that was pain. With every breath, there was a new explosion of agony, and it was _blinding_. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t even stand. I just collapsed, hitting the deck knees-first, and then there was cool wood beneath my cheek. I knew I needed to rise, get up, keep running, keep fighting, but I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t respond to my commands. Distantly, I could hear somebody yelling, but I couldn’t make out the words, or where they were coming from. I could smell something burning, like rubber or wood. But all I could feel was pain. And all I could see was red, dotting my sleeves before growing into a great river, trying to drown me. I drew in a ragged, choked gasp, and even this hurt. I wanted to move, to try and get up or roll over or something, see if I could escape or even ease the pain, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. All I could do was stare at the red staining everything around me, blossoming like some perverse flower, before the red turned black and I passed out.

* * *

 

I wanted to go back to sleep the moment I woke up. All I could feel, all I could see, all I could hear or taste or think was pain. Every broken breath was excruciating. It was a struggle to even open my eyes. Above me, blurry figures moved, and quiet voices spoke.

“What’s going on?” I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. The speakers turned to face me, and in some corner of my mind, I recognized their faces, but I couldn’t say from where, and I couldn’t name them.

“Don’t move, Jimbo,” one of the speakers directed me, coming to stand next to me; a gentle, firm hand found its way onto my chest. “Ya’ll make everythin’ worse doin’ that.”

“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Nothin’s wrong, Jimbo, everythin’s fine. Just lay back down. We’ll take care o’ things.”

“What’s going on?” A new idea, inspired by the speaker’s somber tones, occurred to me. “Is somebody hurt?”

“Everyone is accounted for, Mr. Hawkins,” the other informed me. “It would be best at this point for you to return to your earlier position and relax.”

“C-Captain?” Only one person ever called me Mr. Hawkins.

“Indeed. Follow my orders, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Okay.” It was too hard to speak, anyway. And I was having trouble just keeping my eyes open. I slowly lowered myself back down onto the cool, hard surface. It wasn’t my bed. It wasn’t the hammock below decks. “Wait, where…where am I?”

Captain turned to the other person, and dropped her voice a little. I could still hear every word. “Keep him distracted while I work, if you please. Speak to him. Keep him calm. According to the doctor, you're very good at this."

“Aye.” The other responded gravely, and came to stand next to me.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, again. What did she mean, _keep him distracted while I work_? What would she do, exactly?

“Nothin’ big, Jimbo – ya got a bi’ banged up earlier, but we’re lookin’ after ya. Ye’re gonna be fine.”

“I…where am I?” I repeated, fingers exploring the surface I lay on. Well, the fingers on my left hand did. My right hand refused to move. My right _arm_ refused to move. Panic suddenly gripped me. “What’s happened to my arm?”

“Nothin’, Jimbo, I told ya. We’re just patchin’ ya up a little. But ye’re gonna be fine, I promise. I’m here.”

For some reason, these words calmed me more than anything else right then could have. And they were cause enough for me to fight against the exhaustion plaguing me and force my eyes open to stare up at the speaker, the tanned face and dark eyes… Even in my half-conscious state, I registered what I said was wrong even before I said it, but it still came out of my mouth. “Dad?”

He fell silent.

Somewhere out of sight, the captain began prodding at my right arm; the pain she produced was so blinding that I couldn’t keep quiet. “What are you doing?” I tried to sit up again, to look at her, but I was shaking so badly by then that I couldn’t rise more than a few inches.

“Jimbo, lay down,” he placed a placating hand on my good wrist. “Don’ be movin’ too much.”

“What’s going on, Dad?” I knew that wasn’t his name, somehow, but I couldn’t think beyond the word. My mind recognized it was wrong, but it just felt right.

“Jimbo…” He was really quiet again after that. He sounded sort of upset; panic stirred within me at the realization. What had I done wrong this time?

“No…Dad, wait…I’m sorry…” I lifted my good left hand, trying to find his, to reach out and touch him. “I didn’t…I’m sorry…what did I do? I’ll fix it…promise…I can fix it, I can…just don’t leave, please don’t leave…”

There was an instant where I was afraid he wouldn’t respond, but then his fingers found mine; his grip was warm and firm and reassuring. “No one’s leavin’ ya, Jimbo.”

“Are you sure?” I wasn’t completely sure I believed him; I had a number of experiences of saying goodbye. “People leave all the time…” My head was beginning to pound, but I swallowed against the pain. “They’re always leaving…just wish somebody would _stay_ …”

* * *

 

The next time I awoke, I was aware of my surroundings, but the recent happenings felt dim and vague and incorrect; I thought I must have dreamed them. The slight rolling, tilting motion of the _Legacy_ and the sickening swaying of a hammock was unsettling to me in a way it hadn’t been for awhile. I swallowed, licking dry lips; my mouth tasted stale and sour. My throat burned with thirst.

When I shifted, trying to rise, fiery agony seized me, searing unbearably along my right arm; I drew a sharp, surprised breath, glancing down at once to locate the cause. A white bandage wrapped firmly around my upper arm, dotted here and there with scarlet drops, was the only indication that anything had happened. I moved slower after that, hesitant and careful; I’d obviously gotten hurt somehow, and I didn’t want to worsen that with haste.

When I’d at last made it to my feet, vision blurry and stance shaky, I almost surrendered and collapsed right back in the hammock. The mere idea of journeying from here to the galley was exhausting, and I wasn’t sure I could make it there without throwing up or something. But my throat was raw and sore, and I was sure water would help.

I stumbled around, up the steps, staggering like a zombie, a nasty, throbbing headache already beginning to threaten me. When I reached the deck, the signs of devastation that greeted me jogged my memory. Pirates. The pirates had attacked. The pirates had been after the map. The pirates had gone for Captain’s stateroom. The pirates might have gotten…

I forgot about the water, the pain, everything, and just bolted across the deck to the stateroom. Flinging open the door, I burst into the room. “The map? Is the map okay?”

There was a second of silence while the captain, Mr. Arrow and Delbert – I couldn’t figure out why he was in there, but I had more important things to worry about – just stared at me, but to me, it felt like an eternity. Finally, the captain recovered and glanced down at the papers on her desk, returning to her previous task. “Mr. Hawkins, it is considered good etiquette to knock before entering the quarters of a superior.”

“Sorry,” I acknowledged the truth in her statement, but I wouldn’t let myself get distracted; reaching over and shutting the door, I lowered my voice and added, “Well? The map? It’s okay, right?”

The captain allowed herself a small smile. “Yes, Mr. Hawkins. Thanks to your warning and Dr. Doppler’s quick thinking, it is safe.”

“Good.” A relieved sigh escaped my lips; the pain, exhaustion and dizziness came rushing back. I put a hand to my temple, trying to ease the mounting headache.

The captain must have noticed this, because she added, “Consider yourself relieved of your duties until further notice, Mr. Hawkins. You are still recovering, and will want to get a bit of rest.”

“Recovering?” I spared the bandage on my arm a brief glance. Oh. The pirates. Right. The deadly whistle. The pain. The red river surrounding me. I’d been hurt. “Alright.”

“Although I would advise you to stop by the galley and have a word with Mr. Silver – he is anxious to hear more of your condition.”

“Right.” I nodded, still running my fingers over my throbbing temple. “Thanks, Captain.”

From the stateroom, I stumbled to the galley, longing thoughts of sleep already sneaking in again. Somehow, I felt more exhausted than I ever had in my life. When I made it to the galley and spotted Silver at the stove, I gave him a quick smile but kept heading for the water barrel; the captain had soothed me about the map, so water was once again my top priority. “Hi.”

He didn't return my welcome; dropping the spoon in his hand and abandoning whatever meal he’d been preparing, he hobbled over to me as fast as his cyborg leg could carry him. “Yer awake?”

Considering the answer was pretty clear, I didn’t bother responding, just grabbed a small wooden cup, dipping it in the barrel and filling it to the brim. I didn’t stop drinking until the cup was completely empty and I had to go back for a refill.

“Don’ drink too much,” Silver cautioned, but the words were flat, the tone harsh and unfriendly. “Ya don’t want it all comin’ back up in a few minutes.”

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and turned to face him. “You’re acting kind of weird, what’s up?”

“Nothin’.” But his expression was closed and unreadable, and I wasn’t stupid; I could tell when he was holding back.

He turned abruptly away from me again, seizing his spoon and resuming his stirring with unwonted vigor.

“Silver?” I took a step closer to him, abandoning the water. “What’s wrong?”

When he glanced at me, I could see fire in his dark eyes. “Ya need to get back to bed, get some more rest.”

I let out a frustrated sigh, turning away from him. “Fine.” It wasn’t my job to babysit him. Maybe he was pissed at something else. It had nothing to do with me.

When Silver spoke again, he sounded deceptively, eerily calm. “If you’ll pardon my plain speakin’…” His tone grew suddenly, inexplicably harsh; not loud, not a yell, just pure fury. “Have ya gone _stark-raving, totally-blinkin’ daft_?”

“What? Why?”

“Tha’ pirate? Ya shot tha’ pirate!”

“W-well…well, yeah! I mean, he was about to shoot you! Silver, I thought—"

“It doesn’ matter what ya thought!” he forestalled me; he was yelling properly now. “I was gettin’ back on my feet, lad, I was fine! Ya didn’t need to go burstin’ in there—what were you thinkin’?” He interrupted himself; abandoning the stirring again and grabbing my arm, forcing me to spin and face him, he repeated, “What were ya thinkin’?”

“I don’t know!” I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation. “Maybe that you were going to die? That I’d better help you out?”

“That pirate,” he informed me, “he was th’ one that shot ya. If ya hadn’t stepped in, he wouldn’t have—"

“If I hadn’t stepped in, you’d be _dead_!”

“Ya shouldn’t have!” he roared. “I was gettin’ up, I was fine!”

At the time, I’d been certain that if I remained still, he wouldn’t make it. Now his words ripped through that certainty, making me feel stupid and foolish. “But…well…it didn’t look like that from where I was standing!”

“Ya don’ interfere with pirates! Ya piss off a pirate, ya got the whole crew after ya! He coulda killed ya!”

“But he didn’t!”

“Well, that was some dumb luck!”

“Does it matter anymore?”

“Of course it does!”

“Everyone’s okay!”

“But I thought ya weren’t!”

“And you _almost_ weren’t!”

“Ya don’ understand! I would have been—"

_“I can’t lose you, too!”_

The moment I spoke the words, I wished I could un-say them. In their wake was this horrible, ringing silence and when I met his gaze, I couldn’t hold it; with his eyes came the sudden certainty that everything that had happened after the red river turned black hadn’t been a dream, either. That he’d really been there. That I’d accidentally called him dad. That we’d talked about goodbye. My throat burned with something stronger than thirst.

I spun around, glaring down into the depths of the water barrel. I couldn’t even let him see my face anymore.

When he spoke, his voice was unbearably gentle. “Jimbo…”

“I have to go.” Cool detachment. It was what I was best at, and it would work now. I had to be icy. Aloof. Jim I-don’t-give-a-shit Hawkins was back in place. I pushed off from the water barrel, setting my jaw, clenching my fists.

I spun around, shouldering my way past him; hot tears pricked insistently at the corners of my eyes, but I forced them back. I could not cry. Not here. Anywhere but in front of Silver. Before I could reach the galley steps, he grabbed for me, catching my sleeve and forcing me to slow.

“Silver—"

“When ya got hurt…” He met my gaze for only seconds before we both looked away again. “There was a minute there when…when we didn’ know if ya were goin’ to be okay.”

“Okay.” I nodded. It’d be best to just let him talk. Hearing him talk was a hundred times better than him trying to make me talk.

“And it didn’ last very long,” he continued, a little awkwardly now. “But…but ye should know that…it was...it was...awful...it was awful for...for me, I mean, 'cause…’cause I can’t lose ye, neither.”


	5. Judgment Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after what silver calls a harmless comment - and jim calls a challenge - a certain cabin boy has his first drink. or actually his first several drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is literally no reason for this chapter's existence except that once it entered my head it would not leave me alone until i wrote it.

Thirty minutes ago, things had been pretty normal.

Well…

“Normal” was a relative term for Silver. In fact, considering he was a pirate, his normal could be anywhere from stealing treasures, celebrating his victory with beer, essentially living like a king, to skulking hurriedly through dirty city streets, head down, hat pulled low, avoiding police officers and struggling to find enough food or get enough sleep.

As of late, his normal had been somewhere between the two – life on the ship was comfortable and simple, and he was grateful for it. He always had plenty of food; he had a bed every night, and got plenty of rest; he had company and ease and the destination to keep him going despite everything…yet he still lived in a near-constant fear of discovery.

After all, the captain was a clever woman, there was no doubting that, and with that fiercely loyal, ever-vigilant first mate of hers always at her side, Silver had been working hard to slip under the radar. Not to mention the boy…a few minutes aboard the ship and he had been so close to guessing the truth…

That lad was something else, to say the least.

He, unfortunately, figured heavily into Silver’s current normal; from washing dishes to mopping the deck to bitter, muttered complaints regarding the work he was expected to complete, the kid had a way of getting under the cook’s skin, no matter what.

True, he hadn’t voiced his displeasure nearly as often lately, but far be it from Silver to think this was actually because the lad felt he had nothing to complain about; it was most likely the resulting exhaustion from hard work and little else for five straight weeks. He hadn’t responded, or even looked up, at any of the cook’s gibes that morning, just silently seated himself on the old, upturned crate to finish washing the dishes left over from the previous night.

By now, the rest of the crew had fallen asleep, leaving Silver and his cabin boy to finish cleaning the galley before retiring themselves; at one point during the task, the cook had happened to glance at the mead barrel, recalling suddenly that it was empty. “Jimbo?”

“Mm?” The kid rose to his feet, precariously balancing a stack of gleaming plates in his arms, making his slow way over to the cupboard.

“Whenever you’re done with that, lad, I’d like ya to scurry off to the storeroom and bring up a bit more rum. Seems somebody drank th’ last o’ this barrel and didn’ tell me.”

“Mm-hm.”

The kid _must_ have been tired, the cyborg realized. This kind of ready obedience was just not him.

He didn’t have long to ponder this; ten minutes later, the lad disappeared into the storeroom and returned bearing a full barrel, setting it down next to the other with a grunt. The force caused the lid to jump a bit, splashing a few droplets on the back of Jim’s hand. Without even batting an eye, the kid lifted his hand and actually licked it off.

“Jimbo—

Silver never made it any farther than that. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure what he’d been intending to say. “Don’t do that, you’re underage”? It wouldn’t technically be illegal for the kid to have a drink or two here, in the middle of the Eitherium – unwise, perhaps, but not really illegal.

Silver didn’t suppose it mattered, because he never got the chance to argue the point with Jim anyway. Because almost immediately, the kid’s face crumpled.

His mouth twisted, his nose wrinkled, his tongue came out and he wiped at his lip as if to physically reject the taste, scrubbing with his jacket sleeve. “Ewww!”  
And there was something about the expression on his face – and the suddenly obvious fact that he must have never had anything even akin to alcohol before – that sent Silver over the edge, and he burst into laughter.

Somewhere amid his mirth, he heard the lad demand, “Do people actually like this stuff?”

Struggling now to control his laughter, the cook tapped the barrel in satisfaction. “This is some o’ the choicest stuff in th’ galaxy, Jimbo. But it is a bi’, uh…beyond your level.” He bit down on his lip to keep from betraying any amusement, leaning over and detaching the pot from over the stove, carrying it over to the galley steps. But he couldn’t just leave it at that. He was John Silver, after all, not exactly known for his tact. He had to give at least one really good jab. Flint knew the kid deserved it. “You migh’ be better off stickin’ to juice. Leave the grog to experienced men.” And the last thing Silver saw before ascending the galley steps was the lad’s dark scowl. The cook laughed to himself all the way up to the deck.

Perfectly ordinary. Right?

Even once he’d emptied the pot over the side, all the uneaten, unused food falling away into space, Silver hesitated upon returning at once to the stuffy galley. It was a beautiful night, clear and sweet-smelling and endless – the kind of night that made it hard to regret his decisions. On nights like these, he never wanted to quit looking at the stars.

Deep in thought, the cyborg drew closer to the rail, placing his flesh hand upon the cool metal bar, gaze fixed always upon the sky above his head. Treasure Planet was what he was waiting for, it was what he was chasing, dreaming of, killing and scheming and aching for – but had it been worth it? He glanced down at once, examining his cyborg hand, stretching the fingers in and out, listening to the gears clicking and whirring with each new movement. He’d become something less than a man in his endless quest, and he just had to hope it had been worth it.

It took a minute for Silver to return to the ship; with the Eitherium stretching out before him in all its endless magnitude, it seemed to him that he could forget himself if he stared at the stars much longer. Forget everything that made him who he was. Forget everything.

A little roughly, the cook pushed away from the rail, opting instead to inspect the deck as critically as possible, eyeing the hardwood in hopes of spying anything, a flaw, an imperfection, that would keep the kid up for another couple hours. He was feeling vindictive enough tonight to force the kid to stay awake.

Failing that, the cyborg remained on deck for another ten minutes, at last conceding defeat – damn teenager was getting real good at mopping, Silver thought moodily – and returning to the too-warm quarters below.

Only to find Jimbo standing there. Over the mead barrel. Laughing. A little too loudly.

It took Silver only a second to come up with the reason behind this strange behavior, but he clung to hope like a drowning man to a lifeline. “Jimbo?”

At least this made the laughing stop. Unfortunately, it also caught the kid’s attention and he lifted his head suddenly. “Shilver?”

Flint help him, the kid was shit-faced.

How had it happened? He’d only been up there thirty minutes, forty at the most! It wasn’t like that was enough time to…

“This is some strong stuff, Silver.”

“Best grog I’ve had in ages!”

“Damn, this is some good rum.”

By Davy Jones’ locker, this was not good.

And this left Silver with only one question: what had the kid been thinking?

“Hi, Silver,” the teenager appeared suddenly at his side, smile a little too wide, stance a little too relaxed, eyes a little glassy. “Hi, Silver. Hi.”

And there he stood, acting like everything was natural. Like the scent of alcohol didn’t cling to him like a second skin. Like he hadn’t just consumed Blackbeard knew how many.  
Unfortunately, the cook couldn’t even find it within himself to yell at the lad. All he could really manage was a sort of halfhearted, “Wha…?”

“Mm.” Without warning, the kid suddenly leaned against Silver, small fingers finding the cook’s flesh arm. “You’re warm.”

“And you’re…you’re wasted,” Silver remarked, still unwilling to believe it.

“I’m not drunk,” Jim was quick to respond, but his words came slowly. “You’re drunk.” And then he melted into peals of laughter.

“What are you…how did you…why…how much did you have?” Silver finally managed, in a weak voice.

“I’m…I’m…” Jim pushed off the cook, eyebrows scrunching together, as if undergoing severe mental strain. “I’m…what’s the word?”

Silver stared at him.

“What’s the word?” The boy grabbed at his arm again, as if it was a matter of dire importance. “C’mon, you know it…when you…when you didn’t do something?”

“What were ya thinkin’, kid?”

“Innocent! There we go!” Jim hollered. “I’m innocent! One hundred percent this time! Make sure to tell Mom, ‘kay? I was innocent this time! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Lad, you’re hammered to the poin’ where it’s no’ even funny. Now I expect ya to tell me straight, what was goin’ through tha’ head o’ yours when ya decided drinkin’ was a good idea?” He should have known it was useless to try and get anything out of the boy when he was in this state, but looking back, Silver supposed at that point, he’d still been clinging to the hope that it was all an act.

The kid stared up at him with unfocused eyes. “Are you…are you gonna take me to Juvenile Hall?”

“…What?”

“No! I’m innocent this time!”

“Alright.” Silver wasn’t sure if he was conceding defeat or just struggling to keep a hold on his emotions; either way, he blew out a breath, massaging his temple. It was pointless to try and scold the kid at this point, so the cook changed plans. “Ya need to get to bed, Jimbo.”

“Fuck it.” The kid shrugged nonchalantly, suddenly uncaring. “I’ll go to sleep when I damn well please.”

“Oh, believe me, lad, we’ll talk in the mornin’, and you’ll want to be well rested, then, I assure ya.” Silver rather thought he was speaking through his teeth at this point, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I don’t need rest.” Jim lifted himself easily up onto the nearest table, picking at a groove in the wood. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“No. Ya need to get to sleep—

“I’m hot.” The kid shrugged off his jacket and then, without any sort of warning at all, reached down and began to pull up his shirt.

Silver had witnessed his fair share of immodesty, but he still felt the blood rushing from his face rapidly, and he dashed over to the kid as quickly as he could, fighting to pull the hem back down. “Put your clothes back on!”

“Why?”

“You’re gettin’ dressed again.” Silver left no room for arguments this time; the last thing he needed was for the doctor or, so help him, the captain, to come across him with his half-naked cabin boy and assume the worst.

“You don’t control me.”

Silver at last managed to redress the boy, forcing the shirt back down, and released a small exhale, leaning against the table for a moment. The silence that followed was almost peaceful, at least until the boy’s eyes brightened. “Did you know I could get paid to take off my clothes?”

“Jimbo—

“I could, though! I’m serious!”

“No.”

“You’re an ass,” the boy responded casually, flopping back on the table.

“Ya need to get in bed.”

The kid sat up again. “And you need to get in the retirement home.”

“Kid, I swear to Flint, you’re diggin’ your own grave.”

“I can’t!” The kid sounded close to tears now, and the cook immediately glanced up, afraid that maybe he’d hurt himself.

“Ya can’ what?”

“I can’t dig my own grave!” Tears built up in the blue eyes.

“What…?”

“I don’t have a _shovel_!” sobbed Jim. “I mean, I guess I could dig with my hands…but then Mom would get mad. She hates it when I dig holes in the yard. But I guess we could dig it in your yard?”

“Lad…”

“Let’s dig it in Spider Psycho’s yard,” Jim suddenly sat up again, sniffling a little. “Then we’ll push him in it. So I’ll have dug _his_ grave.”

“Ya need to get in bed.” Silver did not add that this last idea of Jim’s sounded tempting.

“Yeah, okay.”

There was a long silence in which the lad did not move an inch.

“…Jimbo?”

In a voice of utter wonder, the kid whispered, “I could get paid to take my clothes off.”

“For the last time--"

“I mean, isn’t that crazy? I could get paid to take my clothes off. That’s some fucking insane shit, right? I could make money off my nudity. Can you imagine that?”

“I wish I couldn’t,” mumbled Silver.

“And you know what else? Isn’t this crazy? Listen, just hear me on this – my family, we’re all in totally different places right now. Isn’t that crazy? I mean, I thought the point of family was to stay together. To be there.” His tone shifted, becoming suddenly quiet. “But I’m here. On this ship. With you. And my mom’s back on Montressor. And then…then my dad…well…who knows where he is?”

Another silence fell, and in it, Silver wrestled an unreasonable swell of something resembling pity. He knew the kid wasn’t actually upset, knew this sudden sentimental mood was due only to the drink, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling.

“Fuck that.” Jim jumped off the table, voice cutting through the cyborg’s thoughts, landing a little unsteadily on the galley floor. “Fuck that. And fuck him, too.” He stumbled a little, grabbing at Silver’s coat sleeve to keep himself upright. “Fuck him, right? I don’t need anyone. I’m…I’m me. I don’t need anyone. I’m alone. And it’s fine.”

“Lad…” And Silver wanted to say more, wanted to find the right words, reassure the kid and send him away, but the silence stretched on and the right words never came.

“It’s cool. I’m fine. I don’t need people. I don’t. I’m not…I’m not…I won’t ever need people, so I won’t ever be clingy or needy or whiny, and I won’t ever need them so much that they leave. Who needs that, right? Who needs me?” The kid curled his hand into a fist around the scrap of Silver’s coat. “You want to hear something crazy? I don’t need me, either. I don’t need me, and you don’t need me, and nobody needs me. That’s crazy, right?”

Sympathy be damned, now Silver was starting to get a little annoyed. He had limited patience with people who wasted time feeling sorry for themselves, and, drunk or no, the kid looked ready to wallow in his own self-pity. “Ya need to get—

“I don’t need me. Nobody needs me. Nobody.”

“That’s bullshit,” Silver snapped, and put a hand on the kid’s chest, pushing him away as firmly as possible.

“No…no, but it makes sense,” the kid protested weakly, latching onto the cyborg’s thin white shirt and clinging to it with seemingly all his strength. “All I do is mess things up and upset Mom. I mean, if somebody needed me…if she needed me…” Jim was silent for an impossibly long moment. “If he needed me, he would have stayed.” The words came out so quietly that Silver nearly missed them. Nearly.

For a moment, the pity crept back in, tugging at whatever was left of his heart – poor kid, he thought, poor, poor kid – and for some reason, he found himself saying, “That’s bullshit. Everyone’s got somethin’ to offer th’ world, Jimbo, even you. Even if ya don’t see it yet.” He nodded, as if to reinforce his own words, and waited a minute for the other to respond.

It seemed to take Jim a long time to do so. “You…you know what, Silver?” His voice sounded strange; shaky and sad. Silver hoped to God that the kid wouldn’t cry again. If he did, the cook recognized that he’d need to comfort him. He just needed to tell him that everything was going to be okay and hopefully—

“There are times when you can be a real dick."

Silver wasn’t quite sure where this conversation was heading, but he was pretty certain an intoxicated teenager was insulting him.

“But then there are times when you can be really nice, too. Isn't that kind of weird? Can people do that? Can they be nice and a dick at the same time? We'd need a word for it, though. A cross between 'dick' and 'nice'."

"...Jimbo."

"DICE!" Jim hollered, before melting at once into peals of hysterical laughter. "Dice! You're a dice! You're a dice, Silver, get it?"

_"What?"_

"Dice," the lad's laughter died away almost instantly, smile fading into a small, bewildered frown. "Silver...Silver, I...I gotta...gotta tell you something..."

Silver was silent a moment, briefly weighing the merits of ignoring the kid entirely and herding him up to the crew's quarters with as little conversation as possible, but reluctantly concluded that this course of action probably wouldn't convince his cabin boy to listen to him any more than when he was sober. "...What is it?"

"Silver," Jim locked his thin fingers once more around the cook's flesh arm to steady himself, and leaned in _much_ too close for the other's comfort. "I still don't have a shovel."

 


End file.
